


Craig's Life Close Up with a Wide Angle Lense

by LucienDeLorne



Category: South Park
Genre: M/M, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-26
Updated: 2018-07-26
Packaged: 2019-06-16 12:24:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15436983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LucienDeLorne/pseuds/LucienDeLorne
Summary: One mistake has cost Craig everything, and when Kenny McCormick makes Craig his new quest, it's only a matter of time before everyone else finds out his humiliating secret that he's kept hidden for the past ten years.





	Craig's Life Close Up with a Wide Angle Lense

**Author's Note:**

> This idea started out as joke because it seemed so absurd, but as I thought about it, it only made sense to try and make it into a genuine story. I haven't written anything in a while so I'm a little rusty, but any feedback is GREATLY appreciated.

Craig never envisioned his life would be this way when he was 18 years old: sitting cross legged in the waiting room of a Planned Parenthood clinic with a butch lesbian scribbling furiously in a notebook beside him and a wad of decorated condoms in the pocket of his jeans. No one knows he’s here besides Tweek and his parents, and he’s content to let the rest of his graduating high school class think that he’s ditching classes again. He’s not sure how that rumor even started, actually. He’s never ditched a class in his entire high school career, but one day he left after 3rd period to come to this god forsaken place, and when he came back for 6th period everyone was treating him like some bigshot rebel. That’s better than the truth, though, he supposes.

The scent of Lysol and latex that seems to be coating everything in this establishment makes him feel nauseous and out of place as he squirts some hand sanitizer onto his palm to try to be a little less filthy; a little less disgusting. The door to the back room swings open, and his regular treatment provider smiles so saccharinely at him that he almost feels ashamed of himself for being in such a sour mood. She’s always very discreet and compassionate, and he wishes that he could believe that she doesn’t go home after every treatment session and discuss with her husband and girlfriends his humiliating and laughable predicament.

“Craig,” she calls, beckoning him forward with a manicured finger and so obviously avoiding the use of his last name in an effort to make this feel less impersonal and more comfortable. Though, nothing is comfortable about this situation. Nothing at all. “You ready?”

“Mm.” Craig stuff his hands in the pockets of his black jeans, negating the entire purpose of sanitizing his hands in the first place, and follows her into a small room at the end of the hall. He tunes her out as she goes on her usual spiel about her personal life and troubles that he has no business and no desire to know.

“So,” Dr. Scruggs sits on her stool by the sink just as he sits in a chair by the door, his thighs pressed tightly together in anticipation. “What’s new?”

“Not much.” He answers quietly, ashamed to hear the hoarse crackle that has become his voice. She seems to notice, too, because she grins at him.

“Sounds like your voice is getting ready to drop again; that’s a good sign! I estimate it to drop at least one more time before it reaches its maximum depth.” She tells him, and he simply shrugs and avoids her lingering gaze. He didn’t notice when it started, but now his left leg is shaking furiously, foot bouncing wildly on the tile floor. “Any other changes I should know about? Anything you don’t like?”

“Acne.” He admits, rolling up his sleeve and allowing her place a blood pressure cuff on his upper arm. She nods understandingly, pumping the cuff up and staring at her watch. “I wash my face 3 times a day, but it doesn’t do anything.” He continues, feeling awkward in the silence because his swallowing seems to echo against the thin walls like some kind of diseased bird.

“Well, it is hormonal so unfortunately, soap and water isn’t going to do much for that. I can prescribe something stronger that should do the trick. Just make sure to be gentle with your skin. Wouldn’t want you to scar your face. You’re too young for that.” She tells him, though she can’t be older than 30 herself. She jots something down on her clipboard and removes the cuff before turning away from him to get her syringes and kit from the cupboard. “I’m going to draw some blood just to check a few things like your cholesterol and-“

“When will I grow facial hair?” he interrupts her, turning his face away from her and her box of sharp objects. Clyde made a comment the other day when he was staying over for the night to play video games and watch Netflix. _“Man, Bebe pissed me off this morning! She told me I had to shave or she won’t let me go down on her anymore. Do you know how long it’s taken me to grow this thing out? You’re lucky you don’t even have peach fuzz on your face.”_

“Well,” Dr. Scruggs smiles at him, but her brows draw together sympathetically. “There’s no guarantee that you will grow much. Some guys just don’t. It really depends on your genetics and dosage of hormones.” She explains, and he can feel his shoulders slump forward in disappointment. “But, if everything checks out on your blood test today, I’d like to increase your dosage to 1.5 ml weekly and see how that feels. Since you seem to be thriving.”

“Okay.” He isn’t sure what to say, his throat parched with defeat. He tries not to stiffen when she draws the blood from his forearm, attempting to zone out and let her do what she needs to in order to move this along. Sometimes he wishes she would just tell him that he’ll never be like all of the other guys he grew up with; he’ll never have to complain about shaving his face or how long his armpit hair is growing or even be tall enough to be intimidating. He’s going to be a 5’5”, squeaky voiced, prepubescent looking unick his entire adult life, and he’s going to be all of those things alone.

“Don’t get discouraged, Craig,” she pats his knee, snapping him from his thoughts. She’s already got his registered dosage of testosterone in the syringe and is getting out her alcohol swabs. “I’m confident that with time, you’ll be very happy with the changes.” She assures him, and she’s probably smiling, but he can’t look her in the face. Not when his eyes are stinging with frustration. “Now, could you pull your pants down for me?”

And this is it; these are his Tuesday afternoons, and they will be for the rest of his life. All because he didn’t get a good enough grade in one particular 4th grade class 10 years ago.

~

“Dude, you missed it!” Clyde is laughing when Craig makes it back to school in time for 6th period PE class, and he uses Craig’s shoulder as an armrest. He’s only several inches taller than Craig, but Craig is probably the only senior shorter than him so he has to assert that fact when he can. “Cartman bet Kenny that he couldn’t drink an entire gallon of milk in one go so Kenny lifted one from the cafeteria and puked all over Token’s Prius! It was fuckin’ great.” Craig wrinkles his nose in disgust, and when he looks to the bleachers, he sees Kenny looking pale but triumphant with a milk mustache and a shit eating grin on his face as he boasts to Stan and those guys.

“Sorry I missed it.” Craig snorts, dropping his backpack by the first row of bleachers and sitting next to Tweek.

“Hey,” Tweek greets him tentatively, green eyes hazy from his anxiety medication. “So, you good?”

“Yeah.” Craig answers flatly, absentmindedly scratching his thigh where his injection went.

“Where the hell did you go this time, dude?” Clyde pries, sitting on the steps next to Craig with his chubby thighs spread eagle.

“Nowhere important.” Craig gives his usual unsatisfying answer, and Clyde huffs but doesn’t push the issue any further. He’s learned that it doesn’t get him anywhere.

“Alright, ladies!” Mr. Wall shouts, blowing his obnoxiously loud whistle and readjusting himself in his too-short shorts. “Let’s get changed out and get this class started!” Cartman is already groaning and complaining by the time Mr. Wall finishes speaking, and Craig can hear Kyle and Stan snickering behind him. He can’t help but roll his eyes, feeling the back of his neck burn in irritation. Lately it’s all he can do to tolerate their mere existence, and the reiteration of such existence only fuels his spite towards them. Nevertheless, he allows Tweek to take his hand and lead him into the locker room; listen to Kyle berate Cartman for still being a 380 lb. sack of potatoes while Cartman justifies it with the fact that he’s a linebacker for the football team. A decision that everyone knows was made solely based on the fact that he’s so gargantuan that running into him is like running face first into a brick wall.

“Did it hurt?” Tweek asks Craig while he’s stripping down, like he does every time Craig comes back from his appointments. Craig keeps his eyes fixed on the screen of his cell phone, sitting on the changing bench and playing some free game that Clyde seems to have downloaded for him when he wasn’t looking.

“Not really. Just sore.”

“Did she- ah. Did she say anything good? Or bad?” Craig hates how Tweek tries to be so discreet when discussing his hormone therapy because half the time he has no idea what Tweek is referring to and wishes they could just talk about it later when they’re getting baked in Tweek’s car behind the old Kmart after school.

“No.”

“Clyde, dude, you gotta shave your balls or stop dangling them in my fucking face. Jesus Christ, it’s like having two sweaty gerbils running around in here.” Stan complains from some other location in the locker room, and Clyde’s laughter fills the room along with Cartman’s snickering.

“Gerbils? More like pinky mice.” Cartman counters snidely, and Clyde’s laughter stops abruptly.

“Hey, fuck you! Bebe loves my balls.”

“Everyone knows Bebe’s a total lesbian. That’s probably why she makes an exception for you. If Wendy’s balls were a little smaller, Bebe would leave you in a heartbeat.” Cartman remarks, and it becomes a group discussion on whose got the biggest balls and which girls are or aren’t fingering each other during study hall. Craig opts to stay out of the debate, slides off his jeans and sweatshirt to reveal his gym clothes underneath and folds them neatly in his locker.

“So,” Craig stiffens when he feels someone’s hot breath on his ear and someone’s arm around his neck. “What are you packing?”

“Your breath smells like curdled milk.” Craig mutters knowingly, shoulders raised as he turns away from Kenny and his gap toothed grin. He’s the only one in Stan’s group he doesn’t hold any disdain for, but Kenny’s lewd antics still have him at a pretty high mark on his Shit List.

“Yeah, well that doesn’t answer my question.” Kenny drawls, allowing Craig to slip away from him.

“Neither will I.”

“Whatever.” Kenny shrugs, punctuation his irritation by abruptly zipping his parka. “You know me, though. If I don’t know the answer, I cheat.” Kenny says it so quietly that Craig is surprised he hears it, and the smile he gives Craig as he exits the locker room makes Craig’s stomach turn.

“Ignore McCormick, dude.” Tweek snaps from behind Craig, startling him enough to make him stagger. “He’s just- ah. He’s just being a dick because Cartman bet him he couldn’t get in your pants.” Tweek tells him, looking frustrated and guilty at the same time.

“What are you talking about?” Craig hisses, and he whips around to face Tweek. Everyone else is leaving the locker room so Coach Hardass won’t get his booty shorts in a twist, but Craig blocks the exit from Tweek in a way that would be much more intimidating if he was just a head or so taller. “What does Kenny fucking me have to do with anything?”

“I didn’t say anything!” Tweek whispers loudly, green eyes wide and electric. “They were- gah, talking about sex and whatever, and they asked me if you and I ever- ever had sex!” Tweek’s frustration is evident in the way his chubby cheeks turn red, and Craig can see that he’s trying hard not to just shove Craig out of his way and make a run for it. He hates confrontation, and confrontation with Craig Tucker is the worst. “So I just said that we didn’t! That’s all!”

“Fuck,” Craig spits, clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides. “Thanks.”

“It’ll be okay, Craig! Don’t- ah, Don’t make a big deal about it, okay! No one cares. No one knows anything! They’re just- hn, just being dicks!” Tweek is shaking now, his trembling fingers fumbling for the prescription bottle in his back pocket, and Craig can feel his anger dying out like the embers of a fire in the pit of his stomach. He hates getting Tweek upset, and he hates even more that he hates getting Tweek upset.

“Okay.” Craig sighs, shoulders lowering. Tweek’s the only person he dated in his entire high school career, and he knows it looks bad that they never had sex during that time, but it’s not as if that was his only opportunity to get laid. He could’ve had sex with any number of girls in his spare time.

But he hasn’t.

“Hurry up in there, Tweak! Tucker, get out here! Hustle, ladies, hustle!”

And now his first sexual encounter will be getting fucked in the ass by his shitty life. No lube.


End file.
